


The Plans of Kings

by RobberBaroness



Series: Darkest Timeline [13]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/pseuds/RobberBaroness
Summary: A war is planned, and one of Merlin's spells goes into effect.
Relationships: Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon, Guinevere/Mordred (Arthurian)
Series: Darkest Timeline [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598476
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	The Plans of Kings

Guinevere had changed from her torn gown to a plain grey one Morgan had offered her, and sat in a chair wrapped in a blanket. For his part, Kay had refused anything Morgan had offered him since they had arrived at her castle, even food and water. He would have to accept something eventually, but he was being as stubborn as possible until that moment.

“When did you say Arthur was returning?” Kay asked suspiciously.

“He didn’t say. Now that he could ride, he wanted to look for his wife. I can’t imagine he’ll be out much longer, though.”

Morgan had not mocked Guinevere since she had ridden up to the gate. Perhaps she was waiting to do so when Arthur had come back. Guinevere hardly cared if she did- she just wanted to know that Arthur had not encountered Lancelot and Tristram in the woods. Arthur was a fine swordsman himself, but she had no idea who would emerge triumphant from such a fight, even if he’d had Excalibur, which of course he hadn’t.

If Lancelot killed Arthur...Guinevere couldn’t even finish the thought. It had been impossible to conceive that Mordred’s men could have killed him. It was very easy to imagine that Lancelot could have.

_The greatest knight in all of Camelot, they used to call him…_

She looked up with frightened eyes at the sound of the drawbridge. At least she knew Morgan would not allow Lancelot within the castle- or would she? What if Kay was right and this whole invitation had been a trap? Mordred could have offered her half the kingdom if he wanted to, and Lancelot- she didn’t know what he could have offered her, but she knew Morgan had desired him once. Could Guinevere swear she was safe in this castle?

The doors opened and Guinevere’s heart raced when the man removed the hood of his cloak.

“Arthur!"

Not caring if her body still ached from Mordred’s assault and the hard ride through the forest, she ran forward and embraced him. Guinevere pressed herself against Arthur, warming herself in his strong arms. She wanted to weep in relief or in sorrow, but she could not- it was as if every tear had already been wrung out of her. She wanted to just go to sleep in those arms, drift off to a world where it was only the two of them and nothing had ever happened to seperate them from each other.

“We’ve got your sword, too,” put in Morgan. Nobody paid attention to her, and she left the room rolling her eyes.

It was hard to believe, after everything she’d been through, that Guinevere was really kissing her husband. A part of her was afraid that when she opened her eyes, his face would have changed to Mordred’s or Lancelot’s, but it was still Arthur’s when the kiss was over.

“Mordred said they’d killed you,” she whispered. “I knew it couldn’t be true. He’d lied before, I knew he was lying again. I knew you had to have survived.”

“Mordred will die for everything he’s done to you,” Arthur said, “including the lies he told to torment you.”

“I don’t care about anyone dying,” Guinevere said, “not right now. Leave Mordred to hell, just hold me.”

He held her close, and the room was quiet. So quiet that they could hear the sounds of Morgan and Kay bickering through the wall.

“Morgan once said she’d have all my knights,” said Arthur. “I suppose I know now which one she really wanted.”

Guinevere laughed softly.

“I don’t care who Morgan wants. I just want to rest in your arms. Please, my love. I have searched for you for so long. Come to bed with me, and just hold me while I fall asleep. If that isn’t too much to ask.”

***

When Guinevere woke up, she could hear Kay’s voice through the wall- this time, it sounded like Arthur he was bickering with. She pulled her shift, dress and slippers back on, and stepped into the hall.

For the lair of a notorious witch, Morgan’s castle looked much like any other. She was about to conclude that there was nothing of interest to explore (or if there was, it was in a spellbook in the library and would be far beyond Guinevere’s ability to understand), when she came upon a strange guest room with charcoal etchings on it. They couldn’t be- it wasn’t- were they drawings of her?

It made no sense. Why had Morgan had arranged for these sketches to decorate the walls? Had she done them herself? Had Arthur? Was it a spell?

“I don’t mean to ruin your enjoyment of these,” came Morgan’s voice, “but Lancelot drew them.” Morgan stood in the door, holding a glass of wine. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you long ago.”

Guinevere’s head swam as the pictures fell into a horrible kind of sense. The room felt hot and she suddenly felt tired, so tired, and before she could fall, Morgan was catching her by the arm and guiding her to a seat. So Lancelot had always been mad for her. It wasn’t a change that had come upon him overnight, it had been lurking in his heart every time he carried her favor in a tournament, every time he dedicated one of his great deeds to her, every time she spoke to him of her troubles. 

Morgan offered her the wine glass, and Guinevere took a sip.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said again. “For all the time I’ve spent hating Uther for what he did to my mother, I didn’t lift a finger to keep it from happening again.”

“I wouldn’t have believed you,” Guinevere said softly. “And you’ve been kinder to me since I arrived than I expected. Honestly, I expected you to gloat.”

“Even I’m not that monstrous.”

***

“Bedivere is dead,” said Kay. “So are Tor and Erec and Geraint and Sagramore and a score of others. Tristram has turned traitor and joined with Lancelot, and they lurk in the woods as robber knights. Guinevere tells me Gawain is dead as well.”

Arthur nodded.

“Where did it all go wrong?” Kay asked his brother. “When it was you and me and Gawain and Bedivere, it seemed there was nothing we could not overcome. So what went wrong? Was it when we lost a common enemy with the defeat of the Saxons? Was it when we started letting in the French?”

“Perhaps it was when I started leading from the back rather than the front,” said Arthur. “Even with Excalibur at my side, it was so easy for me to send my knights out to do everything for me. Even when Malegaunt kidnapped Guinevere, I did not chase after them myself but sent Lancelot to do it for me. Or perhaps it was when I started to believe in the things I said, when I started to expect my knights to actually live up to my standards.”

“Or…” Arthur trailed off and then found his voice again. “Is it because of what my father did? Was Guinevere hurt because of a curse on my head, because of what Uther Pendragon did in concieving me? Were we destined to play out the roles of Gorlois and Igraine in return? Would she be in danger if I’d never courted her?”

Kay shook his head.

“Ridiculous. Uther’s already been in hell for decades. Fate would not decree that two innocent people be punished for his crimes.”

“In all the stories I’ve heard, that’s exactly what fate would do.”

He sighed.

“I will be in the front lines of the next battle. Marshall our remaining forces. We march on Camlann at the first opportunity.

  
  


***

At that exact moment, Mordred was in Camelot, wishing that being king didn’t mean having to personally be the one to delegate everything that needed to be done.

“I’ll be in the tower,” Mordred told Sir Mador de la Porte. “If she isn’t already out of our reach, tell those idiots under your command that there will be a reward for anyone who retrieves Guinevere. But as none of you have managed it so far, I’m not placing any faith in any of you. I expect I’ll have to do it myself.”

Mador, who quite publically disliked Guinevere from the start, looked as if he wanted to complain about his own time being wasted but didn’t quite dare.

“I don’t see why we’re placing such importance upon a-”

Mordred gestured for silence before Mador could say anything he would have to punish (and any insults against his future queen would have to be punished most severely.) He didn’t have time to witness a full lashing at the moment, not when there was a plan to put into action.

“I don’t recall asking your opinion of my betrothed. Find Yvain, while you’re at it. I imagine Aunt Morgan will be more pliable with her son held hostage. He travels with a very large cat- I won’t expect you to know what it is, but you can’t miss him.” 

Locking himself away in the tower, Mordred spent hours drawing and redrawing sigils, casting and recasting incantations, saying and resaying chants. He would not give up until he saw a change in the mirror, and just when the delirium of exhaustion was about to overtake him, it finally happened.

Something in the mirror shifted this way and that. His frame grew more muscular, his face more broad, his hair streaked with grey. No one could have told him apart from one of the royal portraits, not even Guinevere. Especially not Guinevere.

The face before him in the mirror was unmistakably that of his father. He had done it. He had cast Merlin’s spell, the same one that had given Igraine to Uther. Mordred began to laugh, and then a different laughter altogether filled his ears, as a strange voice spoke to him in a tone of contempt.

“Thought you could poke about in my books, boy?” said the voice. “You’ll not disguise yourself as anyone else from now on.”

There was a face in the mirror next to his- an ageless face decorated with blue markings, looking more Pictish than Breton. Mordred had been a child when Merlin left the court, but the man was unmistakable, even if his image only appeared for a fleeting instant. In the instant Merlin appeared, he was smiling.

And then Mordred screamed as his skin was seared. His face in the mirror flickered back from Arthur’s to his own, and then changed yet again. The skin on the left side of his face grew pale as death, sunken to the bone, and in the name of all the saints, how it hurt! The hair on the left side of his head turned a matching white, leaving him looking like he wore a grotesque mask. Mordred could hear the wizard’s laughter ringing in his ears as he clutched at his face.

He seized the mirror in his hands and shattered it on the floor.

“Mador!” he screamed. When the knight arrived at his door, there was an audible intake of breath.

“My liege-”

“Burn every book in the library. Every. Last. One.”

Mador looked hesitant, but it was not his business to tell royals what to do with their own property, let alone to ask about how they had injured themselves. Mordred stalked to the throne room, still clutching at the left side of his face, and threw himself into the throne in a sulk.

“There was news,” said Mador, following from a significant distance. “Arthur has rallied his remaining forces. They’ve been seen in the forest.

At last, Mordred could smile again. He was about to avenge himself. Not for any one single grievance, but for a host of them, from his birth to his face to the loss of Guinevere. So long as he could have that vengeance, Camelot could burn, and he could collect what remained from the ruins. Guinevere didn’t have to love his new appearance. It would be enough if she feared it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did just see "La Legende du Roi Arthur", and yes, I did notice that Maleagant inexplicably shows up with half a skull-painted face in act 2. Why do you ask?


End file.
